


on wednesdays we wear pink

by kissmeinnewyork



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: A bit stupid, F/M, Fluffy, Humor, Mostly Dialogue, Romance, but missy is so fun to write, mean girls reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 08:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12008865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: It takes Bill a maximum of three meetings to realise that Missy is about the most extra person she’s ever met. (or, the four times missy was beyond the pale, and the one time she sort-of wasn't. twelve/missy.)





	on wednesdays we wear pink

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very odd surreal one, and I have no idea where half of the things described in this fic came from. Hope you enjoy, comments appreciated.
> 
> This is dedicated to my lovely friend Barb, who is going through a difficult time right now. I hope this cheers you up just a little.

**-one**

It takes Bill a maximum of three meetings to realise that Missy is about the most extra person she’s ever met.

“You have a room,” Bill says, eyes narrowed, “Just for _hats?”_

Missy looks at her like she’s simple. “Where else would I put them?”

“Um, I don’t know, maybe in a box? At the top of a wardrobe? Like a _normal_ person?”

“I’m not a normal person,” Missy titters irritably, “I’m a Time Lady. And this Time Lady wants a room for her hats, and does not care for idiotic little humans judging her choices.”

Bill rolls her eyes at the back of Missy’s head, which she can just about see over the top of the boxes thrown at her the moment she’d walked in the TARDIS control room. A small mint green one that couldn’t possibly fit a full-sized hat sits precariously on the top. She has to walk very carefully to avoid it clattering noisily onto the floor, earning another signature death glare from Missy herself.

They stop at a locked door on the corridor and Missy pauses, reaches into her cleavage, uncovers a long brass key with a suggestive red-lipstick smirk.

Bill’s lips trip over themselves as she tries to form a somewhat coherent response, shaking her head. “You—is that really necessary? Can’t you get a keyring? Or a handbag?”

Missy pouts. Pushes her boobs up outside her blouse with her hands, the material bunching, fluttering her eyelashes. Bill throws her the dirtiest look she can muster, which kind of comes across as mildly constipated in reality. “Oh, sorry, have I got you all flustered? Bless. I forgot humans couldn’t control their sexual urges around those they find irresistibly attractive.”

“Ew!” Bill gasps, affronted. The mint green box tumbles from her grip and Missy catches it in one hand, running her tongue over her teeth. “I am _not…_ Oh, I really don’t like you.”

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t like me,” Missy says, slotting the key into the lock. She turns it in one swift motion, the door unsealing itself. “Because at present, I already have one _very_ satisfied customer.”

Bill frowns. “I think you’ll find that Nardole isn’t exactly your number one fan, either.”

“Not the egg, you imbecile!” Missy hisses, gesturing wildly with one hand, “You know exactly who I mean. It begins with a D and ends with a…octor. Has two hearts, grey hair, screams like a little girl when he—“

Oh, that’s _quite_ enough. Bill shudders dramatically, almost dropping all the boxes onto the floor and debates running off to the bathroom to violently throw up. No, no, this is just—she is _not…_ “Oh my god. Oh my god. Please. No. Do not _ever…”_

Missy’s bottom lip juts out condescendingly. She reaches out and taps Bill’s cheek gently, her rings cool and metallic against Bill’s skin. “Mummy and daddy do it too, you know.”

Bill completely blanches and Missy laughs, grabbing one of the boxes off Bill’s pile. She tries to think of anything, literally anything, other than the Doctor and Missy shagging—she feels more violated than the time she caught Moira tugging off Greg (or was it Paul?) on the living room sofa last year. She’s never been able to look at those brown couch cushions the same way since.

She desperately tries to back track. Takes a deep breath. It’s just a Missy thing; Bill’s certain she’s made it one of her sole missions in life to make her as uncomfortable as possible. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. I’m just going to pretend that this conversation never happened.”

Missy shrugs. Blinks innocently. “If that makes you feel better.”

“Yes, it does,” Bill interrupts before she can add anything else, “And I’ve got stuff to do, so please just open the door and we can both get on with our lives.”

-x-

**-two**

The bus she takes to the university is nearly always late, so Bill pops her headphones in her ears and slumps against the Perspex of the shelter, humming along to Taylor Swift’s latest track and reading an advert for a new brand of deodorant. The sun reflects off her new white Doc Martens. She smiles fondly. The Doctor helped her choose them—he was actually surprisingly useful when it came to fashion advice.

The tranquillity is ruined, however, when a black vintage convertible pulls up right in front of her. The Doctor is sat in the driver’s seat, Missy riding shotgun. Both of them are wearing Ray-Bans. Bill’s jaw drops open, tugs her headphones out her ears, wonders if she’s trapped in one of those odd, surreal dreams she’s been having lately.

“Get in loser,” Missy drawls in a fake American accent, dropping her sunglasses down her nose, “We’re going shopping.”

The Doctor turns to face her. “Have you been watching _Mean Girls_ again?”

“Yes,” Missy says, with enthusiasm, “It’s a modern masterpiece.”

“You’re not wrong, but this is getting ridiculous. How many times have you seen it now?”

Missy shrugs, examining her cuticles. She’s painted them a deep, dark shade of blue other than her left ring finger, which is exclusively silver. “Not more times than you’ve read _A Christmas Carol._ ”

“But that’s… That’s Charles Dickens. I’ve met Charles Dickens.”

“Now,” Missy points a finger in his direction, “That is culture snobbery, and I will not stand for it.”

The argument looks as though it’s about to get heated, so Bill takes it upon herself to intervene and sidles up to the Doctor’s side of the car. According to the dashboard—there’s definitely been some tinkering there, Bill can’t remember satnavs being standard in vintage vehicles—they’ve been listening to an Ed Sheeran album called _a 2_ \+ _b 2 = c2, _which she’s pretty sure isn’t out yet, unless she’s missed something.

“What’s going on?” Bill asks, folding her arms, “Since when have you owned a car?”

The Doctor scoffs loudly, one hand clutched round the steering wheel, the other draped across the car door. “You accept the fact that I own a time machine, but a car has you confused?”

Missy flicks open a small silver cigarette case and places one between her lips, looking expectantly over at the Doctor. He sighs, reaches into his jacket pocket, brings out a little box of old fashioned matches and quickly lights it for her. She takes a long, luxurious drag; the smoke is decadently beautiful, hanging in the air, trailing back into the wind. All she’s missing is a ridiculous headscarf and she’s walked out of one of those black-and-white movies Bill watches absent-mindedly on the drama channel.

“You should have seen his last motor,” Missy burrs, blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air, “Might as well have had _I’m an obnoxious badly-dressed alien with an intense fetish for human culture_ written all over it.”

“Bessie was loyal. Much more loyal than you ever were,” the Doctor says, “And if your DVD collection is anything to go by, you can hardly chastise _me_ for having a liking of human culture.”

Missy rolls her shoulders non-committally and throws the remainders of her cigarette overboard, landing unceremoniously in a puddle. “We could have this argument all day, my dear, but you were the one who said they had more important things to do.”

“I do,” the Doctor turns his attention back to Bill, “I just wanted to remind you about that essay I set you on the origins of supernovae. Its due tomorrow evening.”

“I know that,” Bill mutters, wondering why he’s made the effort to find her at a bus stop just to tell her that. She’s always on time with deadlines, unless an inconvenient invasion by malevolent monks gets in the way. “You could have just text me, you know.”

Missy snorts a laugh under her breath. The Doctor’s face curls into a bit of a grimace, looking down at his lap. Bill blinks back, clueless.

“What?” Bill asks, “What’s happened to your phone? You didn’t drop it into a blackhole again, did you?”

“No, no,” the Doctor reassures, “I’ve just… temporarily dislocated it.”

Missy leans over. Presses a hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. “He got quite annoyed with it. Apparently he doesn’t like it when I prank call the Pope pretending to be the Guardian of Hell.”

“The Vatican get very sensitive over claims like that!” he hisses, pushing her back into her seat. Bill wonders just how she managed to get entangled in this very weird web of Time Lord panic. “Anyway. Bill. I’ll see you later.”

The car judders loudly as the Doctor applies his foot to the accelerator and changes gear. Missy elegantly pushes her sunglasses back up her nose and leans back in the leather seat, applying another coat of dark red lipstick in the rear view mirror. She pops her lips and pouts, clearly pleased with her appearance. Bill is about to call out but before the words even have chance to leave her mouth, the convertible is speeding off, leaving her standing in its wake.

“On Wednesdays we wear pink!” Missy yells out loudly, her American accented voice just audible over the top of the car engine. Her laugh somehow carries all the way down the road, despite the car a spot in the distance now. Bill sighs tetchily. She’s never going to truly understand anything about Missy, is she?

-x-

**-three**

The TARDIS control room is a metallic mess of tools and wiring, glass platforms thrown up exposing bare circuit boards underneath and a spattering of bolts crunching under Bill’s trainers. She sits lazily in an armchair, hydro-spanner in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, essentially at the Doctor’s beck and call. Maintenance days were slow days. That being said, there is something remarkable in seeing how everything works beneath the surface. She leans over, looking down the stairs, where the Doctor is hunched over what looks like a large computer screen with his jacket rolled up to his elbows.

“What are you doing now?” she calls out, “I did computer science at school. I could help.”

The Doctor runs a hand through his hair, tilts the screen, his head along with it. “Thanks, but it’s not that sort of computer.”

“Oh,” Bill hums, takes another sip of tea. The TARDIS groans, shifts, and Bill wonders if this is the time machine equivalent of going to the dentist. “Right.”

Her attention is diverted when she hears a vague shuffling from the other side of the control room and a soft patter of footsteps. The Doctor gently drops the scanner onto the floor, brows furrowed. “Missy?”

A moment later, she enters, dressed only in a black bikini and a welding mask. A pair of flip-flops hang loosely off her feet and she’s carrying a blowtorch in one hand and a tool kit in the other.

At this point, Bill has run out of reactions. There is literally nothing more Missy could do to surprise her. She could ride naked on the back of a giant space toad through the TARDIS corridors and she probably wouldn’t even bat an eyelid.

Missy lifts the welding mask up and wipes a bead of sweat off her forehead. The Doctor stares at her expectantly, arms folded, waiting for whatever she’s about to throw him. “My hydro-spanner is broken. Can I borrow yours?”

The Doctor shakes his head, clearly deciding not to comment on her get-up. He flicks his arm airily in Bill’s direction. Returns to work. “Bill has it.”

Missy huffs, dropping the blowtorch and the toolbox onto the floor. She pads across the control room, shoving the Doctor pointedly with her shoulder as she passes, extends her arm out to Bill. Her fingers flex keenly. Bill is about to drop it into her palm, but retracts more out of curiosity than anything else.

“What’s with the bikini?” Bill squints, “I thought you were doing repairs.”

“I _am_ doing repairs,” Missy grits her teeth. Pings her bikini straps with her forefingers. “But it does get quite toasty down by the Eye of Harmony, so I thought I’d try and catch a tan whilst I’m at it. Now. Hydro-spanner. Gimme.”

“You’ll not get a tan down there,” the Doctor calls out, “You’ll go crispy. And remember what happened the last time you got crispy—“

Missy rolls her eyes so forcefully it could hit a high number on the Richter scale. “Shut up. I’ll stop before I turn into bacon. I just want a nice, bronzed glow for when you take me to the Maldives.”

“What—we aren’t going to the Maldives.”

Missy tuts, grabs the spanner off Bill while she’s distracted. “And you’d think I couldn’t drop a more obvious hint.”

Bill watches as Missy trots back down the stairs and hovers over the Doctor’s shoulder, murmuring something she can’t hear from such a distance, even if she strains her ears. He laughs, and she laughs back, and their faces are so close it’s like their noses are almost touching—before the Doctor reaches out and pulls her welding mask back down over her face. Missy plants both her hands on his shoulders and pushes him playfully before turning around, picking up her tools, heading back into the corridors.

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re _both_ checking out my arse,” she shouts, her voice echoing round the control room. Bill glances over to the Doctor, who is about as red as she is. She sinks back into the armchair, sips her tea, and tries her best to forget that ever happened.

-x-

**-four**

The makeup and beauty floor of John Lewis is absolutely packed. Bill desperately elbows her way through crowds of smart, intimidatingly beautiful women in tight suits with perfect hair, each spraying her with another intoxicating burst of expensive perfume and urging for her to try a sample. She kindly declines, eyes scanning the crowd, eventually spotting the Doctor thumbing tiny little bottles of Prada whilst a puzzled shop assistant looks on.

“Hey,” she breathes, nudging him with her shoulder. “Got your message. What’s the occasion?”

“Missy’s birthday,” he states plainly, “She mentioned she wanted perfume.”

“Birthday?” Bill queries. She sniffs a liquid in a lilac coloured bottle and for some reason, it reminds her of Heather, but she associates all nice things with Heather so that isn’t such a big surprise. “Didn’t realise you lot had birthdays.”

“Well that’s ridiculously presumptive. A hallmark of your species. Of course we have birthdays. How else would we know how old we were?”

“I didn’t think you did,” Bill shrugs, unfazed. She’s never actually found out either of their exact ages. She assumes it’s a figure around two thousand. “Do you buy her a present every year?”

The Doctor wavers, looking down at his feet. A question he does not want to answer. “Not every year. We’ve—we’ve been estranged for quite a while. I like to make the effort if she’s around.”

There are hundreds of layers to that statement that Bill can never hope to understand so she smiles, picks up another bottle, admires the pretty pastel-coloured packaging. It’s no secret that she’s scared of Missy and the things she’s done, but she can’t ignore how important she is to the Doctor. You will do anything for those you love and care for. Even if those you love and care for throw little girls into volcanoes.

The Doctor strolls away from the Prada counter and over to the Dior one, where a middle-aged woman with a tight-bun and fake-tanned skin tries to talk to him, but the Doctor simply raises a hand and looks around himself. Bill smiles apologetically—she’ll have the manners chat with him again at some point.

“Do you know what sort of scents she likes?” Bill offers, trying to help. “Is it fruity, or musky, or…”

“Flowery, I think,” the Doctor edges in quickly, too quickly, Bill stunned at just how sure he is. He coughs, tugs at his earlobe. “She always smells like flowers.”

She’s about to guide him over to the Estee Lauder counter, because they do this gorgeous one she bought for Moira on her last birthday, all dark and purple and Missy’s aesthetic down to an absolute T. But her phone buzzes in her pocket so she slides her hand into the back of her jeans, breezes over a notification.

A text from an unknown number.

_Tell him I like Chanel. Noir, if they have it. And for God’s sake, don’t let him anywhere near Lush. All the smells and colours confuse him. I don’t need any more bathbombs._

Bill holds a gasp at the audacity of it, but isn’t remotely surprised. Of course she’d have her number. She glances over at the Doctor, still studying a display carefully, before tapping out a response.

_This is supposed to be a surprise._

A few seconds later: _I promise to look very surprised when I open it._

Bill snorts a laugh. Stuffs her phone back in her pocket and wanders back over to where the Doctor is standing. “I was thinking… maybe Chanel?”

-x-

**-five**

His eyes flicker over her figure as she sits at the dressing table, pulling pins out her hair and dropping them with a small porcelain _clink_ into a white dish. Her hair hangs loose, long and dark and unbelievable, and he feels the sudden urge to run his fingers through it. Instead he sits, waits. The silk throw hung over the side of the bed feels smooth beneath his fingers. She’s humming something softly to herself, eerie and oddly familiar, but he’s unable to put his finger on it.

He exhales a long breath, like he’s about to say something, but loses the bottle. Missy stares at him in the reflection of the mirror, blue eyes unusually soft. “Something on your mind?”

“No, not…” he trails off again. Stands, walks so he’s directly behind her, strokes a stray strand of hair away from the nape of her neck. “I like it when it’s like this. When it’s just us.”

“It is you who insists on having your little pets cluttering up the place,” Missy raises an eyebrow. Her arm snakes round her shoulders until she clutches at his hand, squeezing it comfortingly. “But I do too.”

“It’s not that I don’t… I love having Bill around. She’s clever and funny, can be around you for two minutes without trying to kill you.” She smirks at that, oddly pleased. “But you’re _you.”_

“Ah, very specific, my dear. I know exactly what you mean.”

He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss on the top of her head. He doesn’t see the way her eyelids flutter closed. “We’ve spent so many years at each other’s throats. I hate you or you hate me, or we both hate each other, and… you know, don’t you?”

She brings his hand to her lips. Kisses the pads of his fingers, finishing at his wrist. Oh, she knows. She’s known since they first caught eyes, aged eight, standing in the entrance of the Academy with just a suitcase and two breaking hearts to keep them company. Two thousand years. Every single second leading up to now. Oh—they’re too chaotic for it to ever stay this simple, but this one moment is good enough for now.

“I know,” she says gently. “My darling Doctor. Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Come to bed?” he says, one eyebrow arched, and Missy laughs. “What?”

“It’s not usually you who has to do the asking,” Missy stands, coyly sheds her dressing gown, silk pooling at her feet. She turns and he blinks slowly, pushes him over to the bed, kisses him with her hand gripping the hair on his neck. His fingers tug at her bra strap greedily.

“Oh, come on,” Missy says, “Let’s give the pet something she can really squirm about.”

She throws his trousers across the room, and her bra along with it.


End file.
